


His Last Arrow

by Buckysaur



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: ALL THE ANGST, Angst, AoS S01E11 aftermath, AoS S01E11 spoilers, Avenging, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Needs a Hug, Dark, Depressing, Heavy Angst, Hints of Loki, Hurt, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Murder, No Smut, Oh My God, Psychological Trauma, Sad, no happy ending, rated M for violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 08:20:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buckysaur/pseuds/Buckysaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[[ SPOILERS FOR AGENTS OF SHIELD S01E11 ]]</p><p>“He wanted to die, you know,” Clint said, his voice smooth, rolling the arrow between his fingers as he spoke.  “He begged for you to let him die. Even said ‘please.’” His eyes shot up to gaze into Nick’s. “You don’t get to beg for death. You’re nowhere even <i>near</i> that privilege.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Last Arrow

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is really fucking dark. There is no way around it. This is what happens when I get lots of emotions, and then decide to put them all in one fic. 
> 
> Please let me know if I missed any tags you feel are important.
> 
> Thanks to Towe for looking into this for grammar and wording, and thanks to Kitty for helping me with characterisation, grammar and phrasing.
> 
>  
> 
> This takes place several weeks after Coulson finds out what happened to him.

Fury didn’t get to go home often, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a place he loved to come home to. A rare, small smile spread on his lips as he flicked the lights on, and then flipped through his mail, humming as his eye scanned all the envelopes. Most were bills. Some were personal. None of them, for now, important. He put them down on the kitchen counter. His smile from before immediately disappeared behind a grim expression when he noticed something was off.

He had several levels of security in his house, probably more than was necessary. He was used to seeing one or two of the warning lights hidden in the panel in his kitchen on, usually the cause of birds or rain. Natural occurrences that set off the extremely sensitive sensors of one of his systems.

One time, a cat had gotten inside (God knows how, those tricky creatures) and most of the warning lights had been on, albeit in orange, and not in red. Now, however, there was only one green light, and that indicated no one had been in his vault. The rest of the lights were a glaring red, which had to mean that there was someone inside.

Fury drew a gun from a holster at his back, and slowly walked through his kitchen. It was quiet in his house. Too quiet. He could hear the wind outside, the rush of the tree leafs dancing on it. But inside there was not even a creak of a floorboard. A kind of unnatural quiet, especially with an intruder in the house.

He opened the door to the dining room, slowly, until it creaked, when he pushed it the rest of the way open. He flicked the lights on, and swooped his gun around, but there was no one there. He took a deep, controlled breath, and moved on to the next door, which led to the living room-cum-office. His sanctum sanctorum. He didn’t have visitors over often, but when he did, they usually didn’t make it past the dining room.

For a moment, he stood quiet. He could hear his heart beating rapidly in his ears, and tried to calm it down by breathing slowly, but the insistent _ba-dump-ba-dump-ba-dump_ wouldn’t stop. He felt a drop of sweat trickle down his neck. His hand rested on the icy cold door knob. He took a deep breath, and threw the door open wide, holding out his gun, ready to shoot.

The lights were on. Clint Barton was sitting in his leather chair. He was wearing his full SHIELD gear, and sat slightly slouched, his left ankle resting on his right knee, with his bow laying in his lap.

“Agent Barton,” Fury said, lowering the gun. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

Clint looked up at him, and there was something in his eyes that brought a chill down Fury’s spine, raising goosebumps. His hands, still holding the gun, although it was now pointing downwards, shook.

“Call me Clint,” Clint said, and pulled a single arrow from the thin quiver that was strapped to his back.

Fury tensed. Even with his gun, he knew he had no chance against the world’s top marksman. “Clint, put the arrow down. Please. Let's talk about why you're here."

“Why don’t you put down the gun?” Clint asked, deadpan.

Fury’s eye narrowed. If he didn’t know better he’d almost say Barton had switched sides. All his instincts screamed for him to hold on to his gun, but it wasn’t like it was the only weapon he was carrying, and he’d rather have Barton relaxed than on edge. He knelt to the floor, put the gun down, and slid it away from him underneath a chest of drawers a couple of feet away.

“Why are you here?” he repeated then, rising to his feet again and crossing the room to stand in the middle of its sitting area, across from Clint. The archer had turned his chair along with Fury’s steps to face him.

“He wanted to die, you know,” Clint said, his voice smooth, rolling the arrow between his fingers as he spoke.The words gripped Fury’s heart with an icy chill. He should have known this was about Phil. There was nothing that could drive Barton quite so rapidly to the edge like his Agent.

“He begged for you to let him die. Even said ‘please,’” Clint continued, and his eyes shot up to gaze into Nick’s, the sharp, piercing look in them bringing on an almost _physical_ pain. Fury had always known Clint would be hurt in this, but he had never realised just how much until now.

Clint shook his head, biting his lip. “I can’t say I would have complied with that appeal had it been me beside that table… I probably would have done the same.”

He got up, nimble and quiet, just as Fury knew him. Not even the leather of the chair creaked. “What I _wouldn’t_ have done,” Clint said, walking around the room, his steps casual but eerily quiet. “Was put him on that table to begin with, _Nick_.”

Fury turned around on the spot, keeping his eye on Clint as the archer prowled around him. He was closing in on him inch by inch, but thankfully still at a considerable distance. “I did what had to be done,” he said, his hand slowly disappearing in his coat, in search for his second gun. He regretted ever discarding the first. “Coulson needed to live.”

“ _Phil_ –” Clint’s voice was like a sudden explosion, booming and echoing through the room. His face was contorted into an angry snarl. “Was dead. What he needed was _peace_.” He took a deep, shuddering breath, and Fury could see his hands clench and unclench as the archer visibly tried to get himself under control. He pulled the gun out of its holster, but kept it away from Clint’s line of view.

“He has nightmares, you know?” Clint continued, in the same velvety voice he’d used before. He turned on his heel and started circling Fury the other way around. “But he doesn’t scream. Doesn’t even startle awake and reach for his gun. No. He _begs_. He begs for me to let him die, and he _doesn’t_ wake up.” A tremor had entered his voice. Clint raised his bow, nocking an arrow with trembling fingers. The sharp arrow head pointed shakily it at Nick’s face. “He won’t even _wake up_ , won’t let me get him away from there. From that… that _table_ –”

Fury backed away until he bumped into his desk. His fingers searched the ridge for the alarm button hidden there. He still had his gun, but it was of little use unless he was able to distract the other. His reflexes were no match for Clint’s.

In the blink of an eye, Clint whirled around, his bow was lowered, his arrow was put back in its quiver, and he drew a gun. A gunshot sounded through the room. A bullet pierced through skin and muscle and bone, shattering Nick’s wrist. He cried out in disbelief as his hand was rendered useless, just short of pressing the button that would have called in a team of agents. He hadn’t expected Clint to shoot him like that. Not Clint, who was known for his clean shots, incapacitating, but never for _good_ unless he was ordered to make it so.

“None of that,” Clint said coldly, lowering the gun to his side. The chilly expression on his face made Fury nervous. He knew Clint had never liked guns. He always said they were impersonal – boring. But Clint only had one arrow on him, and the fact that he was now using the gun to prevent Fury from fighting back… it made him fear what Clint was saving the arrow for.

Fury sank to the ground, his jaw tense as he tried to suppress any signs of the pain he was in, and simultaneously hold on to and hide the gun he still had in his other hand. “Just tell me what you want. An apology? Freedom from SHIELD? You name it, Clint, I’ll see what I can do. There’s no need to resort to violence.”

Clint smiled sweetly, but his eyes were empty. “Why stop now?” he asked, after which he walked up to Fury, put his boot up against the desk, and kicked it several feet away. The legs screeched as they slid over the polished floor. His boot then landed on Nick’s wrist, his right, his injured one, and crushed it to the ground. Clint leaned with one elbow on his knee, hovering over Nick. “You know, I haven’t decided yet,” he started conversationally.

Fury didn’t answer. Clint shifted his foot. “On what?” Fury grunted, knowing Clint would just continue to hurt him until he talked. His hand tightened around the gun he was now hiding behind his back.

“On how I’ll let you die.” Clint’s voice had lost all of its sweetness. Fury’s heart sank as he realised his fears about Clint’s last arrow had been right.

He stepped over Nick, and Fury couldn’t help but hiss in pain as all of Clint’s weight was transferred to his wrist for a moment. Then Clint walked on, going back to circling him, walking lazily this time, not even trying to mask the sounds of his footsteps. Fury didn’t attempt to move his arm, no matter how badly it hurt. He knew it would only get worse.

“You see, I briefly contemplated making you go through the same,” Clint continued. There was no need for elaboration. “But then I didn’t think I’d ever want to hear someone beg me to let them die ever again.” Clint’s eyes, flicking back from his surroundings to Nick, were hard. “Now I’m not so sure anymore.”

Fury shifted carefully. He had to immobilise Barton, there was no other choice. He was going to kill him at this rate. He grunted, seemingly in pain, to mask the click of his gun as he unlocked the safety behind his back. “Well if you’re going to do it anyway–” His arm shot up at the same time as Clint’s – no – _slower_. A gunshot echoed through the room.

Fury cried out as a bullet pierced its way through his left collarbone splitting it apart, ripping through his flesh, tearing his muscles apart in its wake. His gun clattered to the ground, spinning on the floor until it finally landed several feet away.

“No,” Clint said, his voice scarily calm. “You don’t get to beg for death. You’re nowhere even _near_ that privilege yet.”

Fury swallowed. He had been through enough to think clearly in stressful situations like these, even through pain like that was currently pulsing through his shoulder, but it was useless. Clint had been through the same kind of experiences. He’d had training. He knew what he was doing. He’d been three steps ahead of him this whole time already.

He assessed his situation. His shoulder hurt like a bitch, but he wouldn’t bleed to death from it anytime soon, and neither would he from his wrist. He wasn’t sure whether to be happy about that, given his current situation. He cursed himself for not agreeing to get the tracker implant he’d given some of his agents. It would have registered his injuries, and a team would have been dispatched to assist him the second the first bullet had made contact.

“So you want revenge,” Fury grit out through his teeth, which were clenched together to fight away the pain.

“No,” Clint said. “I want to _avenge_.”

He walked up to Nick again, and Fury involuntarily tensed, which brought another ripple of pain through his shoulder. He forcefully relaxed his muscles, but didn’t let his attention slip. If any opportunity to disarm Clint arose, he’d have to somehow push through the pain and take it. He could kick away the gun if he had to, and then somehow get rid of the bow as well. Clint, however, simply sat down beside Fury, his legs crossed and his bow and gun casually in his lap. He didn’t let go of either weapon’s handle.

“Phil would want me to be a better man than this,” Clint said, with a slight smile. He lifted the gun, pointing at the ceiling, almost as if to show it to Nick. His eyes slid over the dark, matte metal. They were unreadable. “He doesn’t even know I’m here. I bet he’d try to stop me.” His arm straightened, and before Nick could do so much as flinch, another bullet was fired. This one dug into his kneecap and then exploded, splattering bits of muscle and bone onto the floor and both their faces. Clint wiped something red off his cheek.

This time, it took Fury longer to stop vocalising his pain. When he finally got himself under control again, and forced his eye open, Clint was rolling the single arrow he was carrying between his fingers again.

When he noticed Nick had regained a certain level of consciousness, he lowered it a bit. “Ah, there you are, back in the world of the living.” His voice was biting, and Fury didn’t miss the deeper meaning behind those words. The _hate_ Clint so clearly felt for him. “Feels awful, doesn’t it?” He touched the tip of the arrow with his finger – pressed it against his skin, into his flesh, until blood welled up. He looked at it as if fascinated. “Makes you want to just… die.” He brought the arrow closer to Nick’s face, tracing the line of his jaw with it, down to his chin, and then up again, cutting open his lips. “But don’t you _dare_ beg.”

The twisted way Clint was looking at the blood trickling from Fury’s lips reminded him of Loki, and he wished he could move. Disarm Clint. Do _something_. He didn’t want to die like this, but he couldn’t think of a way out. His body was on fire with the pain in his limbs, and Barton had always been faster than him.

Clint prodded his cheek with the arrow, causing small drops of blood to seep out of Fury’s cheek, down to his neck.

“Are you just going to poke holes into me until I bleed to death?” Fury asked, and he had meant for his voice to sound harsh, perhaps to distract Clint, but instead it came out hoarse.

Clint shrugged, and he would have looked a bit lost, if it hadn’t been for the intense look in his eyes as he sat, unmoving except for his arm, which was still painting streaks of blood onto Nick’s skin. Suddenly, he paused.

His knuckles turned white, and for a moment the arrow stilled, before he pulled it away and stood up. He turned to wipe it clean on a pillow on one of Nick’s two couches, and then put it in his quiver again. He turned, facing Fury again, and tossed the gun he had from hand to hand, making it spin in the air before he caught it, throwing it higher and higher every time. The sixth time he caught it, he pointed it at Nick. There was no need to unlock the safety. It hadn’t been locked. It occurred to Fury that Clint didn’t care if he came out of this alive or not.

Clint’s eyes narrowed, and Fury closed his own, not wanting to see what was happening anymore.

“Look at me!” Clint snarled.

Nick involuntarily flinched, which only seemed to make Clint  angrier. He glared, and shot the shin of Nick’s last unharmed limb. Once; shattering the bone. Twice; splaying blood over the floor. Three times; bursts of burning pain in quick succession. After that, the trigger did nothing but produce a soft click when he squeezed it.

Fury couldn’t _breathe_.

Clint rolled his shoulders back as if to get rid of an ache, and let go of a shuddery breath. Then he took out his clip, discarding it on the ground before he clicked a new one in. “Maybe I should just ask you how you want to die,” he commented, his voice bland – equally empty as his eyes. “This is… not what I expected it to be.”

Nick, who now lay panting, tears streaked across his face, looked up at him. “What... did you... expect?”

Clint shrugged, and slumped onto the floor, leaning with his back against the chair he had been sitting on earlier. He gestured listlessly, waving the gun around. “I don’t know. A feeling of satisfaction?”

“Well, I’m sorry for not satisfying you,” Nick grumbled, his pain clearly evident in his voice.

Clint raised his gun to shoot him again, and Fury tried to turn his head away, but then Clint lowered it, sighing. “I had a plan, you know. I’d kill you. Slowly. Intimately.” For a moment Clint seemed stricken by his own words. He visibly shivered.

Fury felt the same kind of chill. He’d heard those words before. What chilled him was that Clint had not.

“And then?”

Clint looked up at him. “Right your wrongs.”

The silence hung heavy between them. It was obvious what wrongs Clint meant. What Fury wasn’t sure about was how he was planning to right them. How does one repair a life, that shouldn’t even exist, and is so far past mending?

“Do you really think you can right them?” Nick asked, and there was something unidentifiable in his voice. He wasn’t sure it wasn’t hope.

Clint smiled humourlessly. “Never.”

“Clint, you don’t have to do thi–”

“You know _nothing_ about what I have to do! You know _nothing_ about Phil! How can you even–! How dare you even–!”

Clint jumped at him all the grace and control from earlier gone. He landed on Fury’s chest, knocking the breath out of him, and gripped his collar. His eyes flickered an electric blue, and he shook Fury violently. “How _dare_ you?” he growled.

Suddenly, Clint froze. Blinked, his eyes out of focus, as if he couldn’t see where he was. He went pale, his lips closing and parting, but no sound coming out. He shook his head, blinked again, and this time he seemed to see him again. He nocked his arrow and drew himself up on his knees, hovering over Fury. He pointed the arrow directly at Nick’s one good eye. It was so close that Nick’s lashes touched the tip when he blinked.

“Clint– think about what you’re doing. _Think_ about it. You said it yourself, Phil wouldn’t want you to do this–” Fury started, grasping at straws in an attempt to change Clint’s mind. Something clearly wasn’t right there. That flicker of icy blue.

“Phil is dead.”

For the first time, Nick was speechless. Had Clint– _No._ There was no way. When he spoke, his voice cracked with panic. “Clint… he– what did you do?!”

Clint tilted his head. “I didn’t do anything. You did. Phil was dead. He is dead. He will be dead. Still dead. What you gave him…” He lowered his arrow until it pointed at Nick’s heart. “It isn’t life.”

Fury could see Clint’s eyes fill with tears, which quickly spilled over his cheeks. For a moment the man seemed confused, until he blinked and more tears fell, this time dripping onto Fury’s cheeks. It was only when he saw them fall that Clint seemed to realise that he was crying. “Don’t you get it?” he said, his voice edging on hysterical. “I have to kill you. I have to– I have to make it right. You made me an Avenger. And being an Avenger is a promise that I have to keep. I need– I need to, Nick. That is what we do.”

“Clint, please, this is not–” Fury started, and he tried to move, but couldn’t, not through the blinding pain.

Clint rose to his feet and let the arrow fly down, piercing Nick’s heart. For a moment their eyes met, Nick’s wide as his lips quivered, his mouth forming silent words that wouldn’t come out. Clint’s empty as he watched Nick’s life drip away.

When Fury went still, Clint stumbled. His gun clattered onto the floor.

He let himself fall backwards into the leather chair, his bow still clutched in his hand. For a long time he sat there, looking wide eyed at what he had done, and thinking about what he had yet to do.

  
  



End file.
